Tracking Moments
by Duchess Delanie
Summary: A bit of "what if". Hiccup does not survive that battle. For everyone else... now what?
1. Inevitable Tragedy

Chapter 1: Inevitable Tragedy

The ash was strangling. Astrid had grown up among fires and the nasty aftermath, but nothing like this. It was like snow, falling thickly about her and turning the sky whiter than the prior mist could have ever hoped to have done. She could barely see in front of her. For a moment she thought how silly it was to rely on the movement of the rest of the warriors, but if they were lost they could all look like idiots together. Even so, she could vaguely see the figure of Stoick ahead. He moved faster than anyone. For another moment she felt guilty, like she should be up there with him.

But why? He was the village chief, important in her life, but the fact remained that she really had never had too many conversations with the man.

And there was the form of Toothless, lying prone on the ground. She was close enough she could make out the mess of metal attached to him, the harness and stirrups that had grudgingly impressed her—not that she ever would have told Hiccup. They looked terrible there.

Hiccup wasn't there. Maybe it was just the ash and mist, but she could not see Hiccup.

The rest of crowd stopped.

There was Stoick, kneeling before Toothless. Both were silent.

Astrid' heart froze in her chest. An odd feeling. She had promised herself she would never ever feel like that. That wasn't how a Viking warrior was supposed to feel. That wasn't how it worked. She closed her eyes. Couldn't she just act like a girl for once?

Hiccup was gone. Something had happened during that blast and that flight and now he was gone. He had been odd. Odd, but always kind of cute. And so unbelievably brave. The first boy she had kissed since she was six, and that had been on a dare. True, it had been on the cheek, but for someone like her that was fairly serious.

Then, for a moment, it seemed all right. Toothless' wings spread open, and for that one wonderful moment her heart thawed and moved and beat and did what hearts were supposed to do. There was Hiccup, eyes closed, but still Hiccup.

She held her breath as she and everyone else watched Stoick pick him up.

He had to be fine. Toothless... Toothless was amazing. Astrid could envision it. Some sort of disaster up in the sky, Toothless enveloping Hiccup in those fireproof wings. Protecting him. Not letting anything happen to him.

Stoick check him. She could see the signs. Breath. Heartbeat. The time passing was agonizing.

And then her wonderful moment was over.

Stoick sank forward, sobbing.

* * *

_Saw the movie last night. Absolutely loved it. And then, whilst getting ready for church this morning, this popped into my head. Great Sunday activity, I know. My hubby says I'm extremely morbid, but I can't help it. I actually hope to get some happiness in this, eventually._

_So, please read, express an opinion if you have one. Also… I don't have a dragon-aware beta. So if anyone would be interested to volunteer before I have to go begging…_


	2. Devil

_I'd like to give some thanks. So, much thanks to: Opaul, Backroads, Narusakufan101, Lilytoby, Shimy, and Keyon Trials. Thanks for your comments. And thanks to you more quiet folk who are also reading. I didn't think to get this much response._

_Here's the next chapter!_

* * *

**Chapter 2: Yellow Eyes**

She sat with her back against the rock, knees squeezed up against her chest, eyes staring out into the misty water. There wasn't much to see. Somewhere up above she imagined the moon providing some light, but nothing could get through the ashes and mist. No one said a word to her. She could hear them behind her, the tiny teenage camp left to itself. What was the matter? Were her own friends so afraid of saying a single word to her? What exactly did they expect her to do? Tear off their faces at the first syllable?

Maybe she would. She didn't even know what she would do. She just wanted to sit her and not look at anyone and hopefully not think. Tragically that no-thinking thing was not working. Her mind wanted to wander, which would be harmless enough save for the fact she didn't know just where her mind might wander. So she stared out at the ocean and tried to think of nothing but waves.

It had been such a long day.

Campfires dotted the beach like stars. She could not even begin to imagine just how late it was. Near morning, possibly, and yet no one seemed remotely interested in sleep. And sleep would be good. Rest was important. Tomorrow would be busy. Repair what ships they could salvage, sail back to Berk… and then what? They would have to figure that out later. But, logically, she should be sleeping. She knew that much. How to be a good Viking girl, focus on the necessities.

Hadn't she already spent an hour crying?

Perhaps that was why no one was coming hear her. But why her? Crying over death was understandable, normal, to be expected. But why her specifically? She was just another village girl.

Had she really been that obvious?

The stupid waves weren't working. What freak had ever thought them to be relaxing and rejuvenating or whatever? She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against rock. Doing so immediately tempted sleep. Yes, sleep. That would be good. She should be sleeping.

Only the moment that thought came also brought visions of the evening. The kind of battle Vikings only dreamed of. And Hiccup. Dead.

She had heard the various explanations floating about. The evidence was all there. That replacement tail fin—burned up. The littlest thing going wrong up there, that high in the sky… well, that kind of fall, even with a dragon protector, was liable to kill anyone.

So of course he would be dead.

And that sort of thing happened. Well, not falling off the backs of dragons, but what did everyone say? Death was an occupational hazard of Viking life. Yes, she had heard it for years.

But that was the adults. Nothing bad was supposed to happen to kids. Kids were locked up the first few years of their life, slowly introduced into bigger and better things, sooner or later killed something… that was how it worked. But they weren't supposed to be under the threat of death until they were older.

Then again, Hiccup always had been an idiot. She had to smile at that.

And then she felt horrible about smiling.

She glanced up the beach towards the little corner Stoick had claimed for himself. He had been there all night, sitting with the body, not letting anyone near. He had certainly and silently created for himself a wide berth. If her friends were terrified of speaking to her, well, she couldn't think of anyone who would dare to speak to him. It should be taken into consideration that no one tried. She had thought about it, asking if she could just… see him. But apparently she was just as terrified as the rest.

The night was so silent. No, silent wasn't the right word. She could hear the whispers of conversations everywhere. It was unnatural. For this tribe, anyway. It was like some new superstition had arisen. This kind of quietness.

She hadn't expected to miss him so much. She hadn't expected anything like to happen, anything that would require her missing anyone.

Toothless. That was a big question in her mind. Should she get Toothless? She had promised Hiccup… well, something involving Toothless, but the dragon had been found and she wasn't sure if that promise had turned into anything. And she really hadn't seen him that night. He hadn't disappeared, but she honestly could not say where he was. Somewhere. She had seen snatches of him, yellow eyes glowing in the darkness. He was probably hurt, too.

If she were to find him and approach him, would he even come to her?

* * *

Nightmare. This was an absolute nightmare and there seemed to be no way that he would be waking up from it anytime soon. And Stoick wanted to. Though he felt nearly incapable of any physical movement, inside he was screaming and praying to any god that would listen that this disaster would not be true. But so far nothing had changed.

He could hear the whispers around. People talking softly at their respective campfires. No one seemed to give a thought about what the morning would be require with the mess the ships were in.

He didn't care.

His son's body lay before him, silent, unmoving. At first glance nothing seemed wrong. It was like he was merely sleeping. And then Stoick would take in the details: scratches, a few scorch marks, a crushed foot. Of course, none of those necessarily meant death. Battle injuries to be worn with pride. But it was the others things. He had felt for breath, listened for a heartbeat. Again and again. And nothing.

The nightmare was not ending.

And so he sat, not tired, not wanting to move from this spot.

He couldn't believe he had let his son climb back up on that dragon. What had he been thinking?

Speaking of the dragon…

It was close. Again. Over the hours he had heard it moving slowly around the island. Near this very spot where no one else dared touch. And here it was back. Again. Yellow eyes in the dark.

Injured, probably.

Good.

And it wanted to come near his son. Didn't the beast understand? Did it have any idea what it had caused?

He locked eyes with the creature. "Leave."

The dragon lowered its head.

"I said leave." It was a whisper, but on his throat it felt like a shout. "If I see you again, devil, I'll kill you."


	3. Should Have Listened

**Chapter 3: Should Have Listened**

Ship repair was always a messy affair. Stoick had always prided himself on a fleet of handsome ships. Oh, he knew their purpose as a means to an end, but there was power in the form of a well-made ship. Blasts would come, enemies would attack, and life and fate declared that ships were not always to last.

But ships were tools, weapons, a craft and a symbol. People knew the signs of a Viking ship and just what a Viking ship meant. To see one in shambles, pieces thrown together like wood in a bonfire, well, it was the crumbling of hope and power.

They didn't have a choice. He had been through it before and he would go through it again. Repair what ships could be repaired with whatever they could be repaired with and get his people home and away from his cursed island.

The maps of it would be burned.

He watched the few ships that had survived, sterns floating at angles from shore. Repairs were happening, more or less. It wasn't that his people didn't have the skill—they didn't have much to work with . The nature of repairs. At least they would be able to bring a few ships back.

If nothing else.

Stoick moved among them, arms crossed over his chest, eyes on the work. He moved steadily, gait long and powerful, though he felt dizzy and faint. And they probably knew it, which was precisely the reason he couldn't show it. That would be failure and they didn't need to see failure right now, not after he had led them on these crazy attack.

What had possessed him to do it?

He should have listened. Hiccup had been right. He never listened.

But he should have. He should have listened, just once. He should have listened. He should have listened. He should have listened.

The words drummed through his brain in the same agonizingly steady rhythm. As much as he wanted to drown himself at the moment, there was something reassuring about the phrase. He could cling to the repetition.

But he shouldn't be clinging to anything. He should be helping with the ships, preparing them. He was the chief and it was his job. No, he was the chief and he had given his command and no one would dare question him.

Hah. No one would even dare speak to them. Not even Gobber. Oh, he could see him wanting to say something, but he was good at keeping away.

He could barely speak at them. Not with the words in his head. At least they could keep him going.

Keep going. What was that good for? Keep going for what? Because he was incapable of listening his son was dead.

Because he hadn't listened.

And he let the phrase continue as he monitored the ships. They needed to be done quickly.

There was no way he was doing the funeral rites from this island.

* * *

"Hey."

Astrid looked up to see Ruffnut standing above her. She attempted a smile and failed. "Hey."

"We're taking the dragons back."

Dragons? Astrid couldn't comprehend that. "What?"

"Back to Berk. We're leaving."

"Oh. Yes. Of course we're leaving."

Ruffnut sat down next to her. "Unless you're going on the ship. It's almost ready. If you're going on the ship, I'll let the guys know and… well, do you want me to come with you?"

Asrid sighed and leaned against Ruffnut's shoulder. She had always appreciated these moments when the two of them could just be girls. "No. I'll go with you. Take the dragons back. I'm feeling up to it."

"I highly doubt that. You're a complete mess, I'm sorry to say."

And just why wouldn't she be a complete mess?

"I'm really sorry. No one expected any of this."

Astrid nodded. "I think I need to get off this island."

"Why do you think we're leaving?" Ruffnut bit her lip. "We also want to…. This was Fishlegs' idea… we have to figure something out. Apparently Stoick doesn't want anything to do with the dragons."

"Why?"

"Think about it."

"Did he say something to someone?"

Ruffnut shrugged. "It's Fishlegs talking. But he actually knows what he's talking about half the time and… well, none of us know what's going to happen."

Astrid jerked away. "You're worried about the dragons right now? That's all you can think about? Is how Stoick will react to the dragons?"

"Hey, hey, I didn't say that!" Ruffnut put her hands on Astrid's shoulders. "Calm down."

"I don't want to calm down. One of our friends is dead. Don't you get that?"

Ruffnut just stared at her, tears in her eyes. "I just wanted to…"

"I know, I know. I'm sorry." Oh, she hated feeling this way. "I'll come with you. I don't want to be on one of those ships with his body. I can't."

"We're leaving really soon."

Astrid nodded. "I'll be right there. I promise. I just need a walk."

"I won't let them leave."

"Thanks."

Without another look at Ruffnut Astrid stormed up the beach. From the corner of her eyes she could see the ship repairs. The boats looked hideous. Good. They deserved to look hideous. She came to the edge of the cave, where the rocks climbed up into a hill. She scrambled up it, not sure just what she was doing. But the climb was easy, and she liked the feel of the stone beneath her hands.

After a few minutes, something growled.

Toothless. Nestled among the stones, hidden from anyone at the shore. His tail curled around him, and she could almost see sores under his scales. His breathing was heavy, but those eyes would not leave her.

All she could do was stare.

The had fallen, Toothless and Hiccup. Crashed. And that was only at the end. Up above had been fire and smoke and… she closed her eyes and turned away from the dragon.

His growl slipped into a purr.

He hadn't done anything. He had done his best. He would never do anything to intentionally hurt Hiccup.

Not that such ideals changed the outcome.

Astrid sat on a rock and opened her eyes. Toothless still watched her.

She pulled out her knife.

He didn't blink.

"Hey, buddy," she whispered as she crawled toward him. He didn't move. Maybe it hurt him to move. "I'm not going to hurt you."

She thought she understood why they said Stoick hated the dragons.

It wasn't fair.

She took the blade to the riding gear. She couldn't very well cut through most of the metal, but she did what she could with praying and twisting. Toothless sat docily through it. Or maybe too tired to move. Finally the metal mess fell away.

Including the tail. The tail was no good anymore.

He made some sort of noise in her throat. She couldn't tell if it were good or bad.

But he let her stroke his face.

It was the most painful thing she had ever done. With a sigh she pulled away. "I need to go. I'm sorry."

It was only when she was back on the beach that she realized Toothless had no way off the island.


	4. Burning

**Chapter 4: Burning**

Astrid doubted she could ever get over the sensation of flying. Pathetic and sad how long her tribe had kept itself to the land and ocean when these scaly beasts had always been there, prime for the taking. She would have preferred a decent saddle, though. Clinging to rope was just freakishly precarious. But the thrill was still there, somewhat deadening her heartache. Or maybe that was merely going numb. Regardless of however else she felt, she did like the thrill, the heights, the ocean spray, the wind, that wonderful flip of her stomach the very moment the Deadly Nadder decided to do something unexpected.

According to the riotous shouts her, the boys loved it, too.

She ran her hand down the neck of the dragon. The dragon needed a name. First she needed to find out whether the dragon was a boy or a girl. She hoped Gobber would know. Hiccup had had the right idea about naming dragons. It was appropriate. Made it something personal. There was responsibility involved when one put in a name. The scales were warm to the touch, and the neck shifted happily under her touch as the wings stretched out just so much further.

"There's Berk," Tuffnut called.

Whatever excitement vocalized during the flight stopped dead. Apparently the same thought was on everyone's minds.

It was Fishlegs who finally said something. "What are we supposed to tell the rest of the village?"

"Make something up?" Snotlout suggested.

Astrid fought an urge to smack him. He wasn't serious, was he? It was impossible to tell with him sometimes and whatever he was intending it was still awful of him to act that way. No, she didn't want to smack him. She wanted to throw him right off of his dragon and hope that he would drown.

Freya, had she always been this vicious-minded?

"Oh, that's great," said Ruffnut. "Make something up. You are such an idiot. Do you even hear the things coming out of your mouth? No, I believe you don't."

"I—" Snotlout began.

"Don't speak. No one wants to hear it right now. What were you going to say when we landed? Call the rest of the village together and make up some story where you were the brave and heroic champion? What were you going to say about Hiccup? Do you realize that Astrid is right here?"

Way to be subtle, Ruff, Astrid thought bitterly.

The main first reaction was silence.

"Wow," said Tuffnut slowly.

Snotlout muttered some apology under his breath.

"Never mind," Ruffnut said with a sigh. "I'm landing. Tuffnut, help me. And I don't want to hear anything out of your mouth, either."

The landing should have been fun, more fun than the flight. But instead all Astrid could see was Berk drawing closer and closer as the Deadly Nadder swirled down towards the ground.

"The woods," Fishlegs said. "We have to land in the woods. Hide the dragons."

"We're already going to be in trouble with Gobber for taking them out of their cages in the first place," said Tuffnut. "Don't you think we should return them?"

"You all saw Stoick. I don't want them hurt. We have to hide them."

"By letting them run free in the woods?"

Fishlegs evidently had no response to that, but the woods did indeed seem to be the silent choice of the group. Honestly, Astrid didn't care where they put the dragons. She barely noticed as she followed her friends through the canopy of tree branches to a clearing. Who was in charge, she didn't know.

She really was numb.

Chattered sprang back to life as she slid from the Deadly Nadder, who immediately lay itself down for a nap. So much for escaped dragons. She slowly joined the group. Physically, at least. She could barely look at them, and they were but voices swirling around her.

"I still say the dragons are going to escape," Tuffnut was saying.

"It's better than Stoick killing them!" Fishlegs, so eager to defend the things. Well, they needed someone to.

"You moron, he'll just put them back in the arena."

"Back to before," sighed Ruffnut. "And why do you all care so much about the dragons when we have to explain everything to the village?"

"We could just wait until the adults get back," said Snotlout, finally returning to speaking. "We'll hide out here, act like we came back with them… did anyone tell them we were leaving? I didn't tell my dad. I'm going to be in so much trouble."

"Of course we're telling the village." The words sprang out of Astrid's mouth, and everyone stared at her. Amazing how long periods of silence could command attention. "We're the first ones back. It's our duty to tell what happened."

"What are we going to say?"

"The truth. What else?"

They continued to watch her. She hated it. Mostly with what was in their eyes. Pity? She didn't need their pity.

"Are you sure you can say that?" Ruffnut asked.

"Of course she can say it," said Tuffnut. "This is Astrid. She can verbally tear anyone to pieces."

She nodded. "Yes. I'll do it. I'll tell… everything. Let's go." And with that she turned towards Berk, practically marching, one foot in front of the other. It felt so odd to be back on the ground.

But it was nice to be home. Comforting. She hadn't realized she had loved the island so much. The trees, the smells, the memories of growing up here, playing in these very woods with her friends…

She tripped. It was stupid and clumsy, a mistake made only by careless people who weren't paying attention. Not a very big disastrous trip by any means, just a bump on the knee that throbbed for approximately three seconds. The problem was she couldn't get up. She could barely move, and the ground was soft and didn't request movement and she could just lie there all she wanted.

"Astrid!" Snotlout screamed.

She realized her face was wet as Fishlegs hoisted her back to her feet. She didn't want to be back on her feet. She didn't want them touching her.

"Is she hurt?" Tuffnut asked.

"You are such an idiot. Here, Fishlegs, give her to me."

Astrid continued to weep as she was passed like a doll over to Ruffnut, who was nice enough to let her bawl into her shoulder.

"I know, I know," Ruffnut whispered as she all but forced Astrid to walk. "We're almost there. Don't listen to them, everyone knows men are inferior."

She didn't know how long it took to get to the village. It was just walking, walking, crying and listening to the boys argue over how to best deal with her. What was she now? The damsel in distress?

Berk was a mess of shouting. Apparently word of the day's previous dragon and teenager escape had spread and now the village wanted to know just where they had been.

"We're supposed to tell them something," Fishlegs muttered.

Astrid didn't want to speak anyone. "Snotlout?"

He was immediately in front of her, hand over hers. "Yes?"

"You say something. I don't care. Make up whatever you want. Anything."

"Of course, babe."

She paused. Her eyes stung. "What are you going to say?"

"The truth."

"Any embellishments?"

"Astrid, I can do this. You'll love it."

"No, I won't."

She heard his loud voice ringing out to the growing crowd as she and Ruffnut headed away. Pure Snotlout drama, all bluntly told. The boy had no gift for storytelling.

But he was making out Hiccup as the hero.

* * *

They knew.

Stoick could feel it in the silent stare that shot across the water before the poor excuses for ships came into the harbor. His nightmare had grown and had taken flight right across the sea back to the village and everyone knew.

"The teenagers took the dragons back," Gobber muttered at his side as the ship was steered in towards the staring eyes. It was like the remainder of the village had come out to watch the ships dock. "You can't keep them quiet."

"I want those dragons dead."

"After all the trouble we had of capturing them?"

Stoick turned away with a groan. "It was nothing to catch them and it will be nothing to kill them."

Silence. Great, now he had Gobber watching him, too. He didn't care.

Then Gobber sighed. Stoick recognized it. A pretend sigh that meant Gobber didn't really care about anything he had to say. "All right. You're the chief."

"I don't care. Do whatever you want."

Above the moon was bright, giant and staring, barely beginning to wane. Yes, he had forced sail in the darkness. He didn't care if they had crashed. But they were home, safe and alive. Most of them.

"Are you going to say anything to them?"

"I'm sure those kids told them plenty."

"Stoick, you should still say something."

"Why?" He whirled around, and Gobber even stepped back in shock. "Why should I say something? I have nothing to say to anyone."

He moved to the stern. There, protected, lay Hiccup's body, wrapped up in Stoick's fur cloak. He carefully lifted him up.

He didn't look dead, besides the cold, bloodless skin. He looked like he was sleeping. But that was a lie.

I should have listened, Stoick thought.

Leaving the ship was easy. Everyone, horrified, parted before him. Yes, the story had certainly already been told.

"Wood," he muttered as he passed Gobber. "Get me wood. Anything that will burn. Firewood. These damned ships. Anything."

The command seemed to spread to everyone. Perfect. The pyre would soon be ready. How was that perfect?

He ran a hand over his son's face. No breath. No color. He could hardly comprehend it.

And the night slipped into a dream as the wood was piled, piece by useless piece onto a small raft. The fire would be unbelievably hot. Stoick observed it all in fascination. It was unreal he was doing this. He shouldn't be doing this.

The dream ended soon in terrifying reality as he laid his son's body onto the pyre boat and started the fire.

He remembered little of it. Just the flames, flickering against the near-dawn sky, and the smoke, billowing and black, rising up through the darkness. There were people around, but of what they did he had no recollection. The burning lasted for eternities. He was frozen in place, watching.

And finally he turned, snatching a torch from someone whose face he barely saw.

"Stoick!" Gobber called.

Stoick ignored him. The torch was the first thing in the past day that felt good. He marched toward the arena.

Where all of this began. Every stupid involvement with the dragons. It all began in this place.

He held the torch against the wood.

It burned beautifully.

* * *

_There. Now that should lay to rest any doubt anyone may have had of me of actually killing our beloved hero. Bwahaha. So when I researched the pyres, I really couldn't glean any information on the time frame between death and funeral (and my beta Backroads is trying to research this for her own fic). So I took the liberty to say Stoick was in the state of mind to just get it over with. If anyone is intelligent in this area, give me a shout, though. I also need to thank Backroads again for letting me borrow a small detail from her awesome one-shot "Ashes."_

_Thanks, everyone, for your support and reviews!_


	5. Moments of Fault

**Chapter 5: Moments of Fault**

Stoick left as the flames lapped the perimeter of the arena. The shouts of horror faded behind him as he started up the hill toward his house. He wasn't bothered. None would be hurt in that fire, not if they were careful. Would they put it out without his command? Rather than run the risk of reducing the entire village to ash, he imagined so. Which was fine with him. They needed to be intelligent, watchful, think for themselves.

The truth was he didn't care what they did.

He slammed the door behind him, and the house shook. He stared at his hands, vaguely impressed with his own strength. Slamming something felt good, he had to admit.

The house was quiet, and everything was just as he had left such a short time ago. Slightly cluttered, items piled up haphazardly on the table and against the wall. Not messy, just useful and accessible. The system had worked for years just fine. He had never minded it and neither hand Hiccup. It was comfortable and familiar. He removed his helmet and hung it from a rafter, then sat down in his chair.

Weakness struck him hard, seemingly brought on just by sitting down. Fatigue flowed through every part of his body. How had he managed to get this far? He buried his face into his hands and breathed deeply. It ached to do so, and the breath seemed to do nothing.

The past few days were a hazy nightmare. Surreal. Nothing more than a jumble of horrible images and the knowledge that his son was dead.

The only thing that seemed at all real.

Because it was real.

And it was his fault.

His hands shook, and he lifted his head. His eyes were wet. Here he was, Stoick the Vast, reduced once more to tears. At least no one was here to see his shame this time. What shame? What shame was there in one mourning his child? His son had died a hero. Did a hero not deserve tears? And it was his son, the only family he had left.

He was now completely alone.

How could this have happened? One bad comment—he thought he had apologized for that. He had thought that relationship had been repaired. It had seemed that way, a moment of mutual forgiveness and understanding. Followed by that moment of fear as that damned dragon flew off.

Hiccup hadn't deserved this at all. He had done something brave, that was all. A risk. And what were risks but that they involved some degree of danger? Had he thought he had something to prove? He had always been trying to prove himself and Stoick had never quite understood why.

All Stoick had ever asked was that the boy listen. He had never expected him to become a great dragon slayer. Oh, there had always been the generic and vague wish, but it had never been like it was necessary. Stoick had been perfectly happy with where Hiccup was. When rumor had it he was doing well in the ring, well, what was a father supposed to do other than feel joy? Of course he had been proud! Was he supposed to have been disappointed?

He wouldn't have been disappointed if he hadn't been the star of the class. He hadn't wanted Hiccup in there in the first place. Hiccup didn't need all of that. Who had ever suggested he did? Had Stoick himself ever made it sound that way? He had just wanted Hiccup safe. Hiccup had never had the marks of a dragon slayer and Stoick had accepted that years ago. He had been just fine with that. Hiccup had so many other talents.

And yet Hiccup had always been so desperate to try. Why? Was it just one of those kid things? That desire for glory? Just needing to fit in?

Stoick wondered if he had done something. He had always been so careful not to say anything. But was it just he being him? Was he not allowed to be himself at the risk of giving his son the wrong impression?

He had always thought their relationship was good. Of course they argued. Didn't all fathers and sons? But other than that and the fact that Hiccup had always been incapable of listening they had always gotten along quite well. He had never thought himself particularly controlling—he only did what was needed to keep Hiccup safe. Admittedly he had sometimes been harsh, but that was necessary. He had always thought of him affectionately.

Hadn't that been seen?

The house was freezing. The coals of the hearth were all cold and dark.

Stoick didn't care.


	6. No

_All right, a little return to Astrid and what I hope to be the beginning of a plot._

_If you're looking for another excellent "death fic" with a lot more quirk than mine, I highly recommend Backroads' "Occupational Hazards and Their Results."_

_On with the story!_

_And thank-you for all your reading and reviews!_

* * *

"No."

Astrid's father made absolutely no sense. Whatever he spoke tangled with the remainder of sleep that still attacked her brain. It was the only logical explanation. Her father sitting on her bed, luring her from sleep, and saying things so crazy they must be impossible.

And so her response had to be no.

Her parents had to be furious with her, taking off with her friends on some wild mission. Not good at all, even for an emerging warrior such as herself. They should be screaming at her about rules, about safety, about sticking where she should until age allowed otherwise. Instead they were quiet and comforting, yet made absolutely no sense whatsoever.

"No," she repeated.

Her father sighed and rubbed his temples. A thinking tendency of his.

It was a dream, she thought. No wonder she was not being scolded. The prior few days had never happened, were merely nightmares. None of them had ever gone anywhere. It was the morning of Hiccup's final test in the arena. All would go wonderfully somehow.

Whatever her father was saying was pure gibberish.

"It's done," he said flatly as he drew his hand away from his face. "It's over. All of it happened last night after you fell asleep."

"No." A third time.

"Astrid, listen to us," her mother said from the doorway. Her mother, the perfect Viking wife. Devoted, patient, and as wild and maddening as the rest of them. And yet always able to show that deceptive and sneaky gentleness. "Stoick set the boat pyre last night."

Astrid's heart reeled in her chest, and she doubled over. "I feel sick."

Her father grabbed her hand. "Of course you do."

"Why didn't anyone tell me? Why didn't anyone get me?"

"You locked yourself in here," said her mother, crossing the room from the doorway. "We didn't dare… and there was no time. Before we knew really what was happening it was all over."

She should have been there. Why hadn't she been told? What had she assumed? The slow pace of a barrow, time to mourn? No, it had been a burning pyre, set immediately after the ship returned.

And she hadn't been there for it.

She squeezed her father's hand, stomach churning too quickly to allow actual nausea.

"I'm so sorry," her mother whispered.

Stoick had done it. Was it his right? How much right did he have as father and chieftain? Did he not care about the rest of them? Was she allowed nothing? Astrid lifted her eyes and drew back her hand. "I need air." She pushed herself from the bed and stumbled from the room, the whisper of her mother to her father of leaving her be.

Outside the air was hazy, the sun a faint red in the sky. The ashes, she imagined. The ashes of the green death so far out this way. They covered the water like the skim of milk. The air and the sky were all she noticed as she walked dizzily through the village. Were people about her? She couldn't be sure, though vague voices saying nothing in particular seemed to surround her.

She didn't feel like Astrid. Astrid was strong, spirited, a warrior. This girl right now that she was, she was weak and unfocused. She hated her. She wanted Astrid back.

She didn't know where Astrid was.

The ocean stretched out before her, and she collapsed onto the dock. Up close she could see the ashes, thick and white as snow. She stared out over the ocean to where the island was, the tiniest mist against the horizon.

Hiccup was gone.

The reality stabbed her like a knife. She even gasped for air, desperate for life against the killing pain.

He was really, truly gone. There was nothing left of him.

It didn't make any sense. They had grown up together, played together as children as all the village children did before growing up into their own separate ways. But still, there had always been the connection that exists, that sense of community. And then, for a few days, things had been different. Something else had happened, something small and silly that may or may not have lasted, but it had definitely been something and so important in its way.

Apparently it would have ended.

But maybe, if she had started it earlier, if she hadn't been so focused on being the best, there would have been more time and maybe this ending would have been different.

But it was too late.

Ashes continued to scatter across the water, and for the first time she noticed them on the wind. She blinked, finally coming into comprehension of the village around her. Yes, there were ashes on the wind. Wood ashes. She turned, her eyes finally noticing the faint smoke rising into the air.

It came from the arena.

In horror she leaped to her feet and ran hard across the dock and onto the main pathways. A few people were gathered around the arena. Gobber, Snotlout, a few others. Staring at what was left of the arena.

Somehow it was horrifying. A good half of it had been burned away, blackened and charred wood, ashy chains littered around.

"What happened?" she asked.

Gobber sighed. "You missed it. The fire show of last night. Astrid, there was…"

She didn't want to hear the words again. "I heard. My parents told me."

"So you know. Good." He gulped and nodded. "I'm sorry you weren't there for it. Perhaps it was best."

"I should have been there." She gestured at the arena. "What happened?"

"Stoick. He lit it on fire. Probably hoped to burn it to the ground. Water was taken to it after he left, but there was only so much they could save."

Astrid thought back to Fishlegs' claims of Stoick wanting to hurt the dragons. "Was anything…"

"You bunch cleared them out well. Nothing else killed last night." Gobber rubbed an eye. They were red.

"You should have stopped him," she said fiercely. "You should have said something."

"I've known him too long, Astrid. There was nothing to be done."

"You should have tried." She turned as her eyes burned again and marched off. To the woods, she supposed, wherever her feet took her. Gobber was absolutely right. But he still should have tried. The knowledge that someone had tried would have made such a difference.

"Astrid, do you need to talk?" Snotlout was pounding after her. The last person she needed.

"No, not to you. And since when do you talk?"

"Okay, I see. This is a really hard time for you. I'm not doing so great myself."

She stopped, but did not turn around. "You are."

"Do you think I'm that awful a person?"

"No, I don't think you're that awful a person." She sighed. "Thank-you for what you said yesterday, to everyone. Now please leave me alone before I punch you."

"Where are you going?"

She still didn't really know, so she let the words tumble from her mouth as they would. Maybe they knew what was going on. "To find Fishlegs."

"Why?"

"I'm going back for Toothless."


	7. Of Dragons

"You're going to get in a lot of trouble," said Fishlegs as he measured and coiled rope around his arm. "No one wants us leaving right now. No one."

Astrid stroked the head of the Gronkle that was placidly chewing on fish. The dragons had to her amazement stayed in the forest clearing—hopefully because of the fish the boys had dragged there. She felt lazy, sitting the grass next to a dragon while Fishlegs did all the work. "Like anyone is going to care what I do. My parents know I'm nuts. And I don't think Stoick has any idea what's going on or even cares."

"Somebody's going to be watching the skies. There's that crazy old man who is always watching people—"

"Fishlegs, no one is going to care what some crazy old man says. Least of all me. And has anyone strictly forbidden us from going."

He stopped coiling and stared at the ground.

She rolled her eyes. "Your parents, right?"

"I have strict parents. You know that. Here, take this for your dragon." He tossed her the coiled rope. "I didn't exactly measure you out for a truly valid fit, but it should to the trick."

Measure her out? She shook her head and climbed to her feet. The Deadly Nadder was chewing on a tree. "If you're grounded, why are you here?"

"I'm not grounded, I'm just not supposed to do anything stupid."

"Is that all they said? I'm sure you can find a loophole there. After all, you're here with me as we speak. And I'm not…" She closed her eyes for a moment, "I'm not exactly stable right now."

"Astrid, no one in the village is stable. My dad's exact words were "Do not go back to that god-forsaken volcano just because there is some rare dragon there." Extremely specific."

She wanted to laugh, but it died in her throat. "Are you coming?"

The fidgeting was small from subtle.

That was okay, she told herself. She could go alone. She would be absolutely fine going alone. She was strong, she was independent, she had not been specifically told not to return to the volcano. She approached the Deadly Nadder with confidence she had never before felt and began to tie on a mediocre rein.

She felt a panic attack coming. No. She didn't want to go alone. She didn't trust herself to go alone. She would probably do something incredibly stupid. And she needed somewhere there in case something went wrong. That was the intelligent thing to do. Teamwork. Independence could get one killed. She finished the knot and whirled back on Fishlegs.

"Just what kind of guy are you?"

Fishlegs' eyes widened as he stepped back in what had to be fear. "What?"

"You're letting me go off alone, Fishlegs. To a dangerous island where who knows what still remains!"

He stared at her, clearly terrified.

She didn't care. She swung a leg over the back of the Deadly Nadder and tried hard not to cry. She didn't want to cry in front of Fishlegs. Her fingers gripped the scaly neck. The pulse through the neck was warm and steady. Heartbeat. What could be more soothing than a heartbeat?

"Do you really want me to go?"

The question did not deserve an answer. Yet she nodded anyway.

He sighed. "Okay, I'll go. I'm going to get in a lot of—"

"Is that all you ever care about?" she snapped.

"No."

She pushed the tears from her eyes with a balled fist that probably should be punching him. "Look, come if you want. Yes, I'd like you to go, but I don't want to get you in trouble if that's your biggest concern right now. I don't want to force you but I'm going and I'm leaving now."

"Just let me get some rope together."

She probably should just take off and leave him, make him catch up. "Fishlegs, I'm sorry. I'm just—"

"I know, I know," he said. He pulled the rope from under a bush. It seemed he had an entire set of dragon training equipment hidden out here. He really did care about the dragons. "I get it. You want to do something, and I'm totally in favor of getting Toothless back."

"That's why I came to you in the first place. I thought you'd understand."

"But you're not the only one upset."

She closed her eyes again. The smoking remains of the arena were right there. She opened her eyes and tried to shake the image away.

"We were friends, too," Fishlegs continued. The next length of rope was being coiled faster than hers, almost ridiculously fast. He spoke as he coiled, the rope whipping about his arm. "Probably not good friends, but I thought we always got along. I didn't think I was ever mean to him, but now apparently I'm just this big jerk who never helped him before. And I'm not like you, Astrid. So forgive me for clinging to rules that I can actually understand." He took a deep breath.

Astrid stared. "Wow. I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

Fishlegs seemed breathless, and his face was red. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to go off like that. I never do that. That was really weird." He quickly made a rein for the Gronkle. "I want to get better saddles made. Right now we'll just risk rope burns."

* * *

The island was new all over again. A day later, a death later, and it was an entirely different place. The mists crawled over the sand and rock, and it appeared a tide or something had washed away much of the bonfires. A few pieces of charred wood, signatures of the destroyed ships, littered the shore as the only signs anyone had ever been there.

Astrid felt colder as she landed. Fishlegs, too, looked chilled.

"It wasn't so cold last time," he said in a whisper.

"Last time we had a giant dragon breathing fire everywhere," she whispered back, wondering why they had to be whispering.

The two dragons stared around, seemingly having no reaction to the place. Fishlegs was quick to point that out.

"They're not scared, or anything. I thought they'd be scared. They don't seem to care. The Queen is dead, this is just an island, apparently."

Astrid squinted through the mist to where the Queen had crash landed. Queen. What a stupid name with which she had come up. She could see the great body, or rather what was left of it, peering over the rocky landscape. "It's up there."

Fishlegs followed her gaze. "I want to go look."

"Toothless," she said. "We're here for Toothless."

The dragon seemed to be nowhere around.

"Toothless!" she called. She had ridden him. Would he have any connection to her or would he just run?

Fishlegs joined in with a thankfully much louder bellow than hers and started toward the higher rocks of the island.

Astrid headed toward where she had seen him the other day. Up in the rocks, hiding. Did he have any idea of what had happened? Did he have any idea that his human was gone?

Her hands and feet ached as she climbed, her fingernails near bleeding as the scraped through the dirt. But the mountain grew steeper and apparently she was too stubborn to admit it. And all the while she called out his name. "Toothless!"

A rock slid underneath her feet, sending her to the ground. Was she so incapable of walking and standing lately? She grimaced and sat down. The mists were thick around her, and she could no longer see the bottom of the mountain. She wasn't too far up the foothills, nowhere near the top, but she felt lost. What was she doing here? What was she trying to prove? That she too could rescue a dragon? She had just wasted hours flying out here for a dragon that clearly did not want to be found.

It was several moments and certainly several calls before she realized that down below Fishlegs was calling her name.

She really didn't want to go. With a heavy sigh she stood up.

It was much harder going down.

Near the shore, so much that the water was lapping at his tail, was Toothless. Brave, beautiful Toothless, staring unsurely at the crab in Fishlegs' hand. He stood several feet away from the dragon, crab held out at arm's length.

"I found it in one of the tide pools," Fishlegs explained. His face was aglow. For someone for years preoccupied with the misery dragons caused he was sure happy to be near a living one. "Next thing I knew he was here."

The dragon came to Fishlegs. After all the calling she had done, after all she had done for Hiccup, Toothless had not even come to her.

And what sort of thing was that to think?


	8. Fighting Dragons

Stoick wasn't stupid. He knew what was going on. The secrecy about him revealing itself in whispers and glances in his direction. Or at least he imagined them. He had no proof, he wasn't going outside. No point in going through any of that all over again. But he was chief, he had been born and raised in this village, he knew these people. They were a village, a tribe, a giant extended family. He knew them. He knew what they were thinking.

He had gone mad. Oh, sure he'd be more or less fine as time went on and would once again resume his duties as chief. They all expected that, but at this time he knew they thought he was mad. And they were right. Why wouldn't he be? He felt the madness in his mind and welcomed it as a tiny escape from the pain and horror he was feeling. The madness, in its strange way, helped him make sense of everything he felt. And the madness was comforting to him.

He had been in the house for hours. Most of the day so far. Strange for him. He had never been one to remain in the house. They knew that, and hence their assumptions of madness.

But still he knew what was going on. His own fault. He had made it too obvious when he had set fire to the arena. Destroy the dragons. Of course he wanted to destroy the dragons! Who wouldn't, after this disgusting mess they had all gotten themselves into? They should have destroyed them all years ago, generations ago.

They were beasts. Monsters.

He just didn't have the energy to do anything about them right now. He didn't know when he would again. Would he even care by then? The rage demanded yes, but a tiny piece of logic in his mind just wanted to let the whole thing slide.

What was done was done.

He had seen through the window two dragons taken off, complete with young riders. He had been unable to see who, but he hoped their parents would take over punishment on that level. He didn't care what they did, and only the barest curiosity wondered where they had kept the dragons. Dragons taking off like that meant there had been no dragons in the arena. Nothing for him to kill.

So they were out there hiding dragons. No, protecting dragons from him. Why? Did they think that just because he had spent his entire life fighting the devils he would waste energy and effort to kill a few tame dragons?

The other dragon had been abandoned on the island. How did the children expect to get it back to Berk? It was impossible.

All Stoick cared about was that one dragon. And that was dealth with. It would die on that island, unable to fly. His hands would be clean.

And Hiccup would hate him for it.

So what? Stoick was the parent and he was the one who now suffered life. Hiccup had been warned, he had played the hero, he had succeeded in that, and he had died nobly. That did not change the fact that he was still dead.

Stoick paced the room, that single thought of death still on his heart. How long would it remain?

He gazed out the window. Night had fallen. He had locked himself up in here longer than he had thought, not that he had been thinking about any of it. Recognition of night was the first coherent thought in a long time. It was logical, simple, nothing to do with Hiccup or the dragons.

Maybe he did hate the dragons. In a single step, the rage was fresh.

But he didn't care enough to do anything about it. Or maybe he did. He didn't know.

Oh, how Hiccup had spoken about those dragons! He had loved them. Loved them too much, more than his own tribe.

In that moment his anger turned towards Hiccup. All over again. That same anger and disappointment. Immediately he was sorry for ever feeling it. Hiccup didn't deserve that. Not from him.

Too much thinking. Too many thoughts that didn't make any sense.

He had to do something, even if they all hated it. He didn't care. He was the Chief. He would probably regret it later, but he had to do something.

He grabbed an axe from against the wall and pushed open the back door. The fresh air of night was overpowering, and he nearly collapsed. Weakness, he imagined. He didn't remember the last time he had ate or drank. Well, he didn't need or want any of that.

They'd be up in the woods, the remaining dragons. For all he knew, the other two had been brought back. But how many dragons there were at this moment, those dragons would be in the woods. Close to the village. He had grown up here, he knew how teenage secrets worked. They all thought hiding in the woods was a great idea. Yes, woods took up a big part of the island, but no one was wild enough to go terribly far.

They all thought the adults were idiots.

It must have taken hours. He stumbled through the woods, relying on the faint moon for his light and that was sufficiently blocked by the trees. Would they have stuck to a real path? Who knew? He didn't care if he got lost. Who would care? Who would even come looking for him? They would all just assume stuff until it was too late and he was dead.

He smiled at that thought.

But at least he heard the breathing, loud and steady. Much too loud. Dragon loud.

Something caught his breath. Fear. Fear that he had never experienced before when dealing with a dragon. But he let it pass.

There were two of them, just curled up in the clearing, asleep.

Why hadn't they left? They weren't locked up, they were free to go whenever they wished.

He recognized the closet one. A Nightmare, one he himself had caught. He had been proud of that capture, disappointed everyone had wanted it for the arena. That had been when the arena had been exciting.

It was an impressive creature, he had to admit that. Incredible and fearsome. The thing that had caused so much terror and destruction. So powerful.

He pushed away the admiration and held up the axe. The thing was still fast asleep.

"You fool," he muttered. "Dumb devil. You have the power to leave. Fly away. Kill me and swallow me hole. I imagine you would like that, wouldn't you? Destroy me?"

He spoke too softly. The Nightmare did not move. Its back steadily rose and fell with the breaths of sleep, and moonlight glinted on the red scales.

They were beautiful.

"Awake!" he screamed. The scream ached his throat and he tried to remember the last time he had spoken. "Awake and face me, devil!"

He wasn't supposed to care. He didn't care. He just wanted this done because it was something to do. And he liked the way the rage flooded him, pumping itself to every part of his body.

One eye snapped open.

Stoick smiled darkly. This was what he was supposed to be doing. Fighting dragons. "So you do hear me?"

The snarl was unmistakable as the Nightmare caught sight of the axe. With a motion that shook the trees it climbed to his feet, tail whipping a few trees off their stumps. It snarled again.

"That's right," Stoick said. "Fight me. That's why you're here. You hate me. So kill me now."

A third snarl, this one sending a stream of fire through the air. Stoick craved the heat. He wanted it to burn him.

He raised his axe. He loved this part.


	9. Battle

For several deliriously wonderful moments that stretched out nice and long everything was all right. Stoick thought of nothing but the axe in his hand and the dragon in front of him. The weight of the weapon was familiar, comfortable, and perfect. He knew how to use, he knew how to use any weapon, and he knew how to use his fists. He did not fear dragons. They were monsters, but dumb beasts that could be faced and had been faced for centuries. He had been born to go against them. And for those moments there was nothing but that glorious purpose and the attacking Nightmare. Everything as it should be. No thought of Hiccup, no thought of the village, no thought of even himself. He was the weapon and the Nightmare was the natural enemy. He brought down the axe, chopping right through the lovely red scales of the dragon's front leg. A sure cut, a clean cut, blood already pouring out of the wound. What a nice sight. The Nightmare screeched and clawed at Stoick with its good claw. Stoick jumped out of the way as he swung the axe again. Another battle begun. No capturing the beast tonight, no small injuries. This night he would be killing the thing.

And with that reality snapped back. He remembered the jumbled mess of reasons he was here, all connecting back to Hiccup and what had happened to Hiccup because of one stupid dragon. And all that had happened because of dragons altogether. All dragons. Every single vicious evil one. None of them deserved to live. And so the sheer rushing pleasure was over and replaced by another, stronger need: the need for revenge. Blood revenge. This Nightmare would be the first. One of the worst of the common village attackers. Bringing it down would be most satisfying.

But that second swing missed, and the sound of it whipping through the air was deafening. The dragon's maw shot toward Stoick, releasing fire that barely missed grazing Stoick's face. But the heat was wonderful after the cold of the house. The light of the flames lingered in the air and for another moment Stoick's attention turned without warning to observe the Zippleback with surprising calmness. The Zippleback did not seem to considering fighting, but it was awake and its head looked on in bloodthirsty fascination. Then Stoick's gaze was back on the Nightmare, its huge jaws opening to reveal the rows of glistening teeth. With one fist Stoick punched against the nearest fang. It crunched against his knuckles and he didn't know if he had broken his hand or the tooth. Perhaps both, for the tooth slid from its socket as the dragon screamed in annoyance.

A tooth. So Stoick had taken out a mere tooth. Pathetic. He could do better and he knew it. His next fist went right into the snout while he with his other arm struck the side of the axe against the jaw. The head whipped around in shock and he seized the opportunity to strike again with the axe, this time into the neck. The scales there were thick. He wasn't severing the head or anything, but he did make a cut. Nothing serious as far as he could tell, but more blood. He just had to get deeper. Deeper and deeper until the thing was dead. He wanted the thing dead. It deserved to be dead as the rest of its kind did. He struck again, aiming at the same spot, the bloody mess near the massive shoulders.

But the head whipped around again with a fresh round of flame that Stoick could not avoid. He closed his eyes against the blast but still the heat meant nothing. He wasn't burning, he was fine. One would expect fire when fighting a dragon, it's how it worked. He didn't fear dragon fire, no Viking did. And his axe had met its mark, blade sinking deep into the neck.

The Nightmare hollered in pain.

Stoick just laughed.

That was interrupted by the throaty click behind him. Ah, the Zippleback, interested in a brawl as well. Stoick turned. He felt the mad grin on his face and did not comprehend it. But it felt good. He hadn't felt this good in a long time. Dragon killing, Berk's ancient art. Sparks lit the maw of one head as green gas billowed from the other. Nice sparks, such a great feature of the Zippleback. Well, those heads could come off as well. He prepared his axe as the Zippleback sent out its fire.

One fire, lighting the air, revealing the shadows of the trees of a place Stoick had forgotten had existed in the midst of all this. And during that fire a long neck swung out, struck the axe blade, and knocked it with impressive force into the darkness.

His palm seemed to burn where the axe had been. But he didn't care. He had to be mad, he had to be crazy, but he didn't care. He laughed again. All right, dragons didn't wield weapons, why should he? He could allow for fairness once in a while. Fairness wasn't going to change anything, so why not allow it? It wasn't going to fix the past, it wasn't going to bring Hiccup back, it wasn't going to change what he planned to do to these dragons. He'd kill them either way and if they demanded freedom from a piece of iron so be it. Let them have a say in their own deaths. He didn't care one way or the other. Dragons held no honor, so he would be happy to teach them some. In fact, there was liberty without the axe. No longer did he have a specific way he had to kill them. It was strength against strength and legends had not cropped up about him for nothing. And unlike them he did not care about the result for himself. They were here to protect themselves. He was not.

So as the next neck came his way he grabbed onto it and squeezed with all the strength he had. Crushing strength. But the neck snapped away suddenly and Stoick crashed to the ground.

He couldn't get up. He knelt where he was, sure he wasn't hurt, not that he knew of. But he couldn't get up. In that single moment fatigue had taken over him and zapped him of all energy. In a single moment. He gasped for breath and fortitude, but there was none. The rage still rushed through him but was unable to do anything but boil in his veins. Logically he understood it. Days and nights of no sleeping, no eating, no drinking. And the effect would happen now. Just as well.

He glared up at the Zippleback, daring it to do its worst. The Nightmare raged not far away, still focused on the injury to its neck. With any luck and blessing of the gods it would die. Die slowly. He looked back to the Zippleback, clicking again for another shot.

But there was no fire. Just the swipe of a claw against his head, and he lost consciousness.


	10. Flight

_Wow. Long time, no update!_

* * *

It was so dark. Astrid squeezed her arms tighter around herself and shivered. She should have brought blankets. Why had she not thought of bringing blankets? She who had always prided herself on being prepared, had not thought of something as simple as blankets. Blankets kept people warm. That was the reason they were invented. That, and as protection against the encroaching darkness of the night. Normally the night and the dark were not things she feared, but on this island it was different. Even the fire she and Fishlegs had made did not seem to blot out the inky blackness. It barely warmed her. She stared into it as if it were a thousand miles away on some completely different island and could do not a thing for her. Between her and this island of the mine was countless waves of freezing ocean and not a single other light.

There were no stars. Astrid loved the stars. But a measure of clouds covered them, and except for an occasional glimpse of the moon as the clouds trudged westward there was nothing. She could have been anywhere and not have been able to tell, only this island had a feel, one that she could not explain. She toyed with the words to describe it. Death. Destruction. Slavery. Monster. Flesh. Blood. Death.

Hiccup.

That image returned to overpower any other word for this island. This was the island Hiccup had conquered when he had defeated that dragon. It was his island. And it was the island that had taken his life.

Somewhere near her Fishlegs lay. She could hear his breathing, but could not judge whether he were truly asleep or just pretending to be. She didn't care, nor did she blame him either way. She couldn't sleep here if her life depended on it. She had come here for Toothless, for Hiccup's dragon. The island was merely a step in rescuing Toothless.

And still Toothless regarded in her suspicion. Poor thing. He lay not far from the fire, asleep. Perfect. The dragon could actually manage to fall asleep. Firelight flickered across his body. He was a beautiful creature, she realized. No wonder Hiccup had been so taken with him.

Hiccup had been a surprising person. How could she for so many of years thought so little of a boy who was brave enough not to kill a dragon but to tame it, to put himself in danger's way every single day? Being near a dragon however tame could not be a safe thing.

She suddenly wanted to touch Toothless. She had touched him before, of course, when she had ridden him. He had liked her then. Sort of. Or so she had thought.

She rose to her feet, fought back another wave of shivers, and slowly made her way to Toothless. He did not stir at her approach, but even so she kept her footsteps to the barest of tiptoes. At last she was close enough to touch. Her skin seemed to tingle, and her heart caught in her throat. Oh, gods, she felt that she was about to choke on her own heart, were such a thing possible! Yet she liked the way it felt, the way it sent adrenaline-laden blood through every part of her body. It was like being in the center of battle.

Her fingers brushed the scales of his tail, so close to the missing fin.

She squeezed her eyes shut, half-expecting Toothless to attack. But he continued to sleep.

Her hand pushed against those scales. They were cool, but protected a burning heat of the dragon body.

Suddenly his yellow-green eyes snapped open. They were far brighter than any possible fire.

Astrid found she could not move. Her hand was trapped on his tail.

No, both hands.

Time was impossible to describe. She was holding onto him. She didn't know how that had happened or when. It were as if her memory had been snatched, scrambled, and returned to her in the very moment Toothless' great wings beat at the air.

He flew.

Not true flying. Nothing as graceful or powerful as what she had seen from dragons her entire life. It was awkward and clumsy, but the strength was there. Power.

Everything a dragon should be.

Her feet were yanked from the rocks of the island as his tail whipped through the chill air. She choked back a scream. She did not imagine Toothless could climb very high into the air, so any fall couldn't cause too much damage.

Hiccup had died from a fall.

No. No. No. Never. She could not think that. She was alive and she were here and she was going to take care of this dragon!

She whirled through the air. It was like rolling down a hill while holding onto something warm and strong that probably wanted to kill her.

"Astrid?" It was Fishlegs' voice, loud and powerful in the darkness. "What do you think you are doing?"

He had not even finished his sentence when Toothless once again hit the ground. Her grasp snapped away from his tail, and she landed on the ground, barely thinking to safely roll as she hit.

Fishlegs helped her to her feet and dusted the dirt from her. He wasn't very good at dusting gently.

Toothless shook himself off, too. His gaze was still on her. Not angry. Just… confused.

But there was something else.

"Good thing he can't fly very high," Fishlegs said.

Astrid nodded. Yes, she had just put herself at risk. She had touched a dragon without weighing the possible results and consequences. But she had an idea.


End file.
